


Goddammit Bro (or, How Dave Strider Learned the All-American Lesson of Cheating)

by in_fini



Series: Out of His Depth AU [2]
Category: Homestuck
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-12-15
Updated: 2011-12-15
Packaged: 2017-10-27 08:52:57
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 648
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/293945
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/in_fini/pseuds/in_fini
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Set in the Out of His Depth AU. Works as a stand-alone fic, but was written as a side story for 'Out of His Depth.'</p>
            </blockquote>





	Goddammit Bro (or, How Dave Strider Learned the All-American Lesson of Cheating)

You are Dave Strider. It is the Fourth of July – the tenth Independence Day you have ever experienced – and you think this is a bad idea.

You unwillingly recognize the fact that while most of Bro’s ideas seem like bad ideas, they’re actually good ideas under twenty layers or more of irony, and they usually end up not completely terrible. You fully understand that sometimes – in fact, most of the time – you’re just not fully grasping the irony and/or the usefulness of something that Bro wants to do. This is one of those times.

“Bro, why are we dueling with –“ you still cannot believe this utter piece of shit in your hand, “- Civil War era firearms?”

“This is Independence Day, Dave. The day our founding fathers shot the British in the back.”

You give him a look. You’ve been paying attention in US History. “It’s the day we signed the fucking Declaration of Independence.”

“Yeah, dipshit, we declared our freedom to shoot each other with Civil War era firearms. Dueling was our founding fathers’ most beloved pastime, and it’s time to honor them by turning, walking ten paces, then shooting at each other.”

It’s hard to give Bro a disbelieving stare when you’re only half his height. You’re probably gonna end up shooting him in the crotch, if you manage to get this piece of shit to fire at all. He’s as impassive as always. You wonder if he means what he says. The fact that you’re wondering at all reduces lowers your IRONY GAUGE, so you simply say, “Ready when you are, princess.”

You turn your backs to each other. He says, “Ten paces and fire, Dave.” You know he knows that you’re rolling your eyes. “And march.”

One. Two. Three. You are not nervous at all. Not even a little bit. Four. Five. _If the presidents were dueling all the time, how’d they survive to become president?_ Six. Seven. You decide this is stupid. Eight. Nine –

 **  
_BLAM!_   
**

Your first thought is _Should’ve known he would cheat_. Your second thought is _fuck fuck ow shit, I’m gonna die_. You raise your hand to your ribs, expecting to find a hole a foot wide and your intestines spilling out, bloody and gross, and you’re already composing the most ironic last words you can think of while you fall to your knees, the pain flaring up your side. Your fingers find a shallow scrape along your ribs. The touch sets the graze burning hotter, and when you raise your hand you can see the blood –

“Shit, Dave, the hell was that?”

You’re not panicking, you’re not pissed – “I forgot to take an example from history and cheat, the way Ben Franklin would’ve wanted it, it’s okay, I’m dying in the most American of ways, bleeding to death from being _shot in the back_ -“

“Dave, it’s a good thing I wasn’t aiming to kill, didn’t I teach you to never ever trust your opponent –“ He’s pulling your shirt away from the bullet wound, and you squirm away as he pulls disinfectant, needle and thread from his sylladex.

“I’m not sure these can even be aimed, it was probably a fifty-fifty chance it’d go off or blow up in your face – ow!”

“Don’t be a pussy. Hold still while I stitch or it’s gonna be even more painful when I take them out.”

You hold still, totally not even biting your lip or anything as he sews. You count twenty of them before he’s done. He cleans up the blood and slaps some gauze and tape on it, and helps you up.

“Let’s go light some fireworks. I’ll let you do the honors this year. Dueling’s for faggots.”

You nod in agreement. You ignore the pain and it recedes into the background as you race down the stairs for your favorite explosives. He’s gonna let you light them this year!


End file.
